MOSCOW'S RICH KIDS

THE Kundola medical centre in a suitably discreet spot, tucked away in thick woods behind a perimeter fence. The closed-circuit cameras keep a careful eye on proceedings.

This being one of the world's better class of drug rehab clinics, the fees are as painful as the treatment - a three-week stay costs GBP 2,500 - and the clientele are therefore reassuringly upmarket. But this is not LA or London.

It's Moscow. The Kundola, on the outskirts of the Russian capital, provides an unhappy gateway to the world of the post-Soviet smart set. All the ingredients found in the louchest circles in the West are here: the clubs, the coke, the idle rich. Post-Communism, Russians have decided they want to be part of world that has, until now, been denied to them. Fiercely proud to be the coolest members of Russia's in-crowd, the pioneers of this new way of life call themselves, for reasons too obscure fathom, the tusovshchiki ("the shuffled ones"); they are all rich, though some claim not to be idle. If they work at all, it is as fashion designers, artists, DJs and traders. Many of the tusovshchiki have built up fortunes over the past few years by trading cigarettes and coffee, or decorating the homes of new Russian millionaires who have more money than sense. Others are accomplished, but beautiful, liggers. At a party two weeks ago, one bounded over to inform me: "I don't know anyone who has less than $3 million." I kept quiet and had another glass of whisky. It's a busy life. Up at noon, the typical tusovshchik might pop down to the Radisson hotel for a cappuccino and some sushi. Much later, it's time to tip up at one of the hundreds of new nightclubs to have opened recently in Moscow. Those cool enough to have a club card to the jumping Jazz Caf will show their face in there, otherwise there's the $75a-head Titanic, which was recently redecorated with a Garden of Eden motif. Industrial-sized fans keep the club-bers cool; you have to wear either Versace or Dolce and Gabbana, and after 3am the place would put any London club to shame. Holidays are another favourite pastime. One thir-tysomething cigarette distributor is worth about $30 million (GBP 18.5 million). He has a huge house in Moscow (a city where most families are crowded into one room), another in London's Bond Street and a nightclub in the basement of his Russian offices. A few weeks ago he was tired of Moscow and decided to get out. Yachts were hired in Thailand to tour through the Burmese Mergui Archipelago. Two days before leaving, one of the girls invited on the trip asked me: "What does one wear in the jungle? Versace, Gucci or Chanel?" But with the benefits come the drawbacks. The partying has been fun - but now wait for the comedown. Drugs became part of the scene in Moscow in 1994. Clubs were opening weekly in the capital, fuelled by a wave of ecstasy arriving from Western Europe and Estonia. By 1996, heroin reappeared in Moscow. Within six months of its arrival many of the tusovshchiki were addicts. Though heroin is now pass (cocaine is the drug of choice today), there are still an astonishing number of addicts in Russia, said by some to run into millions. The authorities have been cracking down on the rampant drug abuse and Russia has some of the harshest laws in the world. In April, police were given the power to arrest and test anyone who appears to be on drugs. Raids on clubs are frequent. Last month Russian police arrested three young people queuing to get into the grooviest nightspot in St Petersburg - a Day-glo underground bunker called the Griboedov Club. They had taken the overnight train from Moscow to spend the weekend in the former Leningrad. They were caught with 0.85 grams of cocaine, in a country where having 0.01 will get you a mandatory three years in jail. Unfortunately for these policemen, they had bitten off more than they could chew. The woman turned out to be Liza Berezovsky, 27, daughter of Boris Berezovsky, a notorious billionaire politician and businessman widely detested for the unusual degree of power he wields. Also arrested was her boyfriend, Ilya Voznezensky, a designer, model and musician - and Stalin's great-grandson. (In 1994 he hosted a party held by one of Moscow's biggest banks which ended up on the cover of Newsweek under the banner heading, "Russia's Filthy Rich".) The young woman and two men were held overnight, but by morning the station was inundated with calls demanding the woman's release. Thought to have been behind the campaign to re-elect President Yeltsin and currently the Secretary of the Commonwealth of Independent States responsible for co-ordinating Russia's relations with the former Republics, Boris Bere-zovsky is not a man to be messed with. Liza, beautiful and educated at Cambridge, was out on bail by lunchtime. Not all the Tusovshchiki have this kind of weight behind them. But they all like to think they have Liza's style. For any normal citizen, being caught with the smallest amount of narcotics means a hefty jail sentence. Nothing has yet been resolved. Liza's father has hired a team of lawyers to fight her case. But last week police chief Anatoly Ponidelko told the Russian news agency Interfax that it is "very unlikely that the police will press for a jail sentence". If Liza escapes the consequences of her high living, few will be surprised. But the outlook for her fellow tusovshchiki at the Kundola medical centre is less certain.

Copyright 1998
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